


kissing flowers (tulips are better than one)

by checkmate



Category: The Maze Runner (2014), The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Artist Thomas, Florist Newt, M/M, i know nothing about art or floristry, idk some others, this is basically just fluff okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-20
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-31 12:12:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3977563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/checkmate/pseuds/checkmate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas is an artist and Newt is a florist. Thomas' studio is right across the street from Newt's flower shop and everyday after work, Newt brings flowers over for Thomas to paint and nearly every next day, Thomas gives Newt the painting of them to put in his shop.</p><p>Based on a prompt by thepewdscrafted submitted to newtttheglue on tumblr :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	kissing flowers (tulips are better than one)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TeenageMutantGingerNinja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeenageMutantGingerNinja/gifts).



> I really like bad puns, okay? 
> 
> So like all prompts I barely stuck to it but the intention was there. This is my first time writing The Maze Runner (and honestly I'm more of a Thominho gal myself but there we are) but I hope I did it sufficient justice idk. Enjoy!

“Thomas?” Newt calls out. He gets no answer, just the creak of the slightly open door, so he pushes it all the way and lets himself in. “Tommy, you there?” He has a large bunch of hydrangeas clutched in his hand, a clean sky blue that he saved because he knew they were Thomas’ favourite. It’s pathetic really, but what can he say? He’s addicted to Thomas’ eyes, the way they light up when Newt presents him with a fresh bunch of flowers, amazed by how such a simple gift can inspire such bloody incredible talent.

Thomas is lost in a painting, an earphone dangling from one ear, and he doesn’t notice his entrance until Newt clears his throat. “Newt!” Thomas grins, a stupid dorky grin that transcends the fact that there is paint in his eyebrow and he’s wearing the pretty much the most unflattering overalls ever to make him pretty much the most attractive person on earth. “Oh my god, that is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Newt smiles, then realises that he’s talking about the bloody hydrangeas. “I know you like working in blue.” He says, backtracking awkwardly and putting them into an empty vase that Thomas has left on the table especially for him. “They should keep for a couple of days, but they’ll start to wilt if you leave them too long.”

“Thanks, man.” He puts his paintbrush down on to a very yellow colour palette and sets it carefully to one side. “That reminds me, I’ve got something for you.” He stands, nearly trips over into the fucking easel, but manages to right himself just before everything goes flying. Newt tries not to laugh as Thomas looks around for the culprit – a discarded Coke can that ended up under his feet.

“I told you, you don’t have to pay me for these.” Newt insists for what feels like the millionth time. “Most of it is leftovers, I probably wouldn’t be able to sell them tomorrow anyway. Destined for funeral flowers.”

He’s lying, and Thomas knows it, since they always last a few days in the studio, making the place smell vaguely like flowers underneath the chemical stench of drying paint. “Come into the back.” Thomas leads the way, Newt is slightly nervous; he’s never been into the back room before, doesn’t really know what to expect.

Okay, there’s a _lot_ of paintings of flowers. He has no idea Thomas paints so many – in fact, until now, he’d been pretty sure the only reason he still took them from Newt was because he was too polite to say he didn’t need them. But apparently he’s wrong. “This is… wow.”

Like, Newt _loves_ flowers. And he _loves_ art. And here’s a whole fucking room full of awesome art depicting all kinds of different flowers. Mainly Newt’s flowers. That’s it. He officially has a giant-ass crush on this guy.

“This is for you.” Thomas says, standing next to a white sheet covered canvas. Absently, Newt wonders if it had been put there merely for dramatic effect. He tugs it off and underneath is a painting of a pale lilac orchid. It sounds dumb, but he recognises it; he gave it to Thomas as a birthday present last month, figuring something a little more long lasting is more appropriate. “You know, to say thanks.”

Newt realises that it’s around this point where he’s meant to say something, instead of just gawping like a bloody idiot. “This is…” He tries, but Thomas holds up a hand to stop him.

“I’m going to warn you, Newt. There are right ways and wrong ways to finish that sentence. ‘Amazing’, ‘awe-inspiring’, ‘a whole new level of artistic talent never before seen in all of the galleries in London’ – right way. ‘Too much’, that there is a good example of the wrong way.”

Newt laughs, unable to help himself. It is too much, but he digresses. “This is a whole new level of artistic talent never before seen in all of the galleries in London.” Thomas laughs too, rubbing at his nose and leaving a smudge of yellow paint in his wake. “Seriously Tommy. Thanks. This is awesome.”

He hangs the painting behind the counter in the shop, and smiles to himself every time he sees it.

*

The next week, Newt has an abundance of orange gerbera daisies, so he takes a bunch across the road. The door is open, as usual, so he lets himself in. Thomas is sat on the floor with a cup of coffee and a _girl_. “O-Oh.” He says, stopping abruptly. “This is a bad time, I’ll… I can come back.”

“Are those for me?” Tommy asks, pointing at the flowers with ridiculous excitement. “They are exactly what I’ve been looking for!” He scrambles to his feet, drags Newt behind him to find a new vase without giving him a second to react. “This one!” He holds up a simple but elegant glass triumphantly and fills it with water, and Newt places the daisies carefully inside. “Your flowers are the best, Newt, you know that?”

“You sure that’s not just because they’re free and from across the road?” _Or because I pick out the nicest ones to give to you?_

Thomas hits him playfully on the arm, a stupid grin on his face, and Newt has to remind himself of the fact that his girlfriend is sat on the other side of this wall and he probably shouldn’t grab him and kiss the dumb (adorably so) look off his face. God damn it. He sets the gerberas down on the table, giving them pride of place over the kind of droopy hydrangeas from last week. He’s impressed they’ve only deteriorated this much; Thomas is almost as good with plants as he is with art.

“I’m thinking of doing an exhibition of these soon. Just a small one, but I’m really happy with how a lot of your flowers have come out.”

Newt nods, not really sure where he’s going with this. “Do you want the orchid painting back?” He asks, a little put out. He’s become attached to the painting, and it gets a lot of compliments in his shop.

“What? No. That picture is a gift, it’s yours.” Thomas is confused, Newt can see it on his face. “I was wondering if… if you wanted to come.”

Oh. _Oh._ “… O-Oh.” He stammers, then wonders if he could have sounded any less excited. Thomas’ face falls a little, the nervous smile wilting. “That sounds awesome! Flowers and art and… stuff, yeah.” _Seriously?_ He can’t tell if he buys this second wave enthusiasm, or whether he just sounds like he’s feigning it. He’s _not_ feigning it; even if it’s not a date, Newt loves Thomas’ art, and he isn’t going to let this opportunity to stare at it without seeming like a total weirdo pass by.

“Okay, cool.” Thomas seems satisfied (thankfully). “Teresa, Newt’s coming. You’re off the hook.”

The girl, Teresa, whoops as they re-enter the room. “Thank you so much, Newt, you have no idea.” Thomas sits back down beside her and pats the ground, indicating for Newt to join them, so he does. Because what the hell. If there is something weird about three people sitting on the floor in a circle, no-one mentions it.

 “You’re not going?” He asks. He doesn’t want to pry, but… Oh, whatever, he totally wants to pry.

Teresa pulls a face. “Urgh. No. They’re so boring and you have to pretend there’s a deep emotional meaning in some fucking daffodils or whatever. Knock yourself out, Newt, but I’m going to pass.”

“I love that you’re so supportive.” Thomas quips, but he’s smiling, not seeming to mind. “It’s a good job Newt is way nicer than you.”

The two of them squabble incessantly, but it’s a comfortable, friendly bickering, and its clear they’ve been together a while. Newt feels sadder about this than he has any right to, since all he does is bring flowers and harbour a crush from a distance – really, he’s just kind of pathetic. He stands up, making some vague excuse about shutting up the shop, and lets himself out. Thomas promises to call and let him know about the exhibition, and Newt smiles.

Friends is fine, right?

At least he can say they _are_ friends now, that it’s more than some slightly distorted business exchange (Thomas gets flowers, Newt gets… sexually frustrated?). It might not be as a boyfriend or whatever, but he’s going to the exhibition withThomas as a _something,_ and that’s okay. For now. The fucking orchids laugh at him from the wall and he tries his best to ignore them, tries not to wonder how many of Thomas’ paintings Teresa has in her house.

*

It’s barely a month later when Newt finds himself dressing in the only smart jacket he possesses, hoping that it’s formal enough. He has been taking flowers every week or so in the interim, and sometimes Teresa is there and sometimes she isn’t. He doesn’t comment on it, and Thomas never deems it necessary to bring it up – it’s only slightly selfishly that Newt hopes they might have having relationship problems. He has a bunch of roses in his hand – yellow, as to avoid the more obvious romantic connotations – but the gift seems fitting for the occasion.

Thomas’ mouth god damn near hits the floor as Newt opens his apartment door. “What?” Newt panics, looking down at his clothes and checking for stains. “Am I underdressed? Am I _overdressed_?”

Thomas shakes his head. “Uh, no, you look… you look really, really good, actually.”

Newt gives him a small smile. “So do you.” There’s tension in the air; Newt tries not to blush too much but Thomas is getting more and more flustered by the second.

“Here.” He says nervously, taking pity on him and handing them to Thomas. “These are for you. For good luck, or, uh… something.” Fuck he’s so awkward, and not even in an endearing way. Thomas, however, grins sheepishly.

“I love roses.” He says quietly, admiring the bunch in his hands. “Thank you.”

Newt is so bloody relieved, having worried that it would be taken the wrong way – well, the right way, but Thomas needn’t know that – for days. But in the end, he decided to go with it, because he just loves roses too.

Thomas lovingly sets them into a vase and places it in the centre of the coffee table. “Perfect.” He admires them for a second, then glances at his watch. “We better go.”

*

“Thomas!”

Newt tenses up as some guy bounds over to them and pulls Thomas into a tight hug. Great, that’s all he needs, another stupidly attractive person hanging around and being too friendly.

“Minho!” Thomas beams back like a fucking puppy, embracing him just as eagerly, and Newt stands there, third wheeling and wondering if Thomas is just a really affectionate person. Maybe he touches everyone like he touches Newt – excessively long hugs and lingering fingers on his arm and backs of hands brushing as they walk next to each other.

The hug breaks apart with much ceremonial back slapping, and Thomas turns to him. “Newt, this is Minho. We've been best friends since we were – what, six years old? Minho, this is Newt.” He prepares himself to give the compulsory and entirely false default response of “It’s so nice to meet you”, but Minho beats him to it.

“So you're Newt.” He says with a knowing smirk, and Thomas actually _blushes_. “Well, it’s good to put a face to the name. I've heard a lot about you.” Newt accepts the extended hand and shakes it nervously, not wanting to think about what Tommy had been saying about him.

“I wish I could say the same.” He says, deciding honesty is probably a better idea than totally humiliating himself. Minho glances at Thomas in surprise, who looks like he wants the Earth to swallow him up, and laughs.

“I see.” He says, grinning with the kind of glee that Newt only usually associates with Christmas coming early. Thomas gives him the death glare, and Newt has no idea what is going on.

A rather efficient looking girl taps Thomas on the arm. “Excuse me, Thomas? Someone wants to speak to you about the hydrangeas.”

Thomas pauses. “Okay, thanks Brenda. I have to go, I’ll be back soon.” He adds with a grimace. “I swear to God, Minho, if you even-”

“Yeah yeah yeah, I know. Go sell a painting, I'll keep Newt company.” He smirks, and before Newt knows what is happening, Minho has whisked him away to a table laden with finger food and champagne. “I love these things. So much food. So much booze.” He says conversationally, helping himself to a canapé topped with some unidentifiable but brightly coloured food.  

Newt smiles uneasily, declining the second glass of bubbly that Minho attempts to press in to his hand. He plans to stay sober-ish, not wanting to consider the embarrassment he could inflict upon himself after a couple of drinks. He looks over to where Thomas is chatting animatedly with a guy in a fancy suit as they look at the painting he expressed interest in. He feels proud, in a weird way, even though he’s contributed nothing - the paintings are a preservation of Newt’s flowers in a way totally unlike anything he’s ever seen. “So.” Minho says, with a knowing grin on his face. “Thomas, huh?”

Newt tears his eyes away from the man in question and back to Minho. “Hmm? What about him?” He replies in an attempt to sound nonchalant and disinterested. His voice betrays him by fucking squeaking. Fuck.

Minho cracks up. “It couldn’t be more obvious if you came with a neon sign, dude.”

Newt tries to defend himself, but it just makes Minho laugh louder, until he is attracted glares from the far more dignified clientele. “Shut. Up.” He hisses. “I’m not talking about this with you. I don’t even know you!” Minho manages to control his laughter but not the smirk, and Newt groans, starting to contemplate that second champagne after all.

“You're his muse.” Minho says with complete exasperation. “I've not seen him this prolific in... In ever,  and a lot of people are saying that this is by far the best work has ever done.”

“Thank the flowers. They're the ones doing all the inspiring, not me.”

“Newt, for God's sake -”

“Maybe his girlfriend should be his muse, huh? Maybe his girlfriend should be his date for things like this, instead of dragging me into it.” He regrets snapping at Minho instantly - none of this is his fault - he shouldn't take out his frustration at Thomas' cluelessness on some guy he's just met.

Minho looks affronted. “His  _girlfriend_? Excuse me Newt.” And he sumps over to where Tommy is chatting to a beautiful and unbelievably tall woman and pulls him aside. Brilliant. Now Newt has probably revealed a secret girlfriend that Thomas had good reason for not telling Minho about. Jesus.

He gives in and pours himself another champagne.

*

Tommy had suggested – or, well, told Newt explicitly – that they share a taxi to the exhibition. By later on that evening, he’s glad he went along with it, because he’s  had several glasses of wine and definitely isn’t in any state to face public transport. Thomas had spent the entire evening smiling and schmoozing and introducing Newt to what felt like everyone in the place, touching his arm and laughing at his jokes and generally being utterly crush-worthy. Only constant reminders of Teresa stop him from leaning over and kissing Thomas square on the mouth.

Thomas babbles next to him about the interest he’s had from potential buyers. “I was a bit worried, because floral still life is all a little… been there, done that, but I’ve always wanted the opportunity to show my take on it.” He enthuses. “It’s not really what people expect but-”

“Well, you’ve never been one to follow the rules, have you?” Newt teases, and Thomas flushes a little.

“Well.” He says, then stops. There’s a brief moment of silence, before the words “Teresa is my sister.” came tumbling from Thomas’ mouth. Newt does a double take. “Well, she’s… She’s my step-sister. Not that you would even care. Um.”

“Your sister? O-Oh. I thought… I thought she was your girlfriend.” Newt admits. Fucking Minho – he doesn’t know whether he wants to thank the guy or kill him. Like, on one hand, Tommy doesn’t have a girlfriend, but on the other, Minho probably made it incredibly obvious that he liked him. A lot.

“God, no. Even if she wasn’t my sister, that doesn’t change the fact that I’m actually very incredibly gay.” Thomas says with a grin, and Newt can’t help laughing. “You?”

He shrugs. “I like guys, I like girls. I probably wouldn’t go as far as ‘actually very incredibly’, but definitely, uh, spend time playing for that team.” He’s edging a fine line, trying to sound not disinterested, but also not embarrassingly eager. God, he’s bad at this; his heart is pounding in his chest so hard he swears Thomas must be able to hear it.

There’s so much tension in the car. Newt glances sideways at Thomas and they make eye contact and _fuck it,_ Newt decides to go for it just as the car screeches to a halt. “This you?” The taxi driver asks, and Thomas jerks back like he’s been electrocuted. Newt scrabbles for the door handle desperately, totally humiliated and cursing, for once in his life, that there hadn’t been a little more traffic on the roads to delay them on the way back to his apartment.

“Newt – “ Thomas says, reaching out to grab his hand. As his fingers close around Newt’s wrist, he makes his decision.

“Come in.” He asks recklessly, dropping any pretence of being cool and collected in favour of a desperate need for Tommy’s lips against his.

He doesn’t hesitate. “Okay.” Thomas throws a couple of notes at the cab driver and scrambles from the back seat, his grin threatening to split his face.  Newt’s heart races as Thomas walks towards him, not stopping as he moves past what would usually be considered a sensible distance between two people. They are practically nose to nose before he pauses, and Newt just does it before he backs out, before he does something stupid.

Thomas is as good of a kisser as he is a painter. It’s soft, chaste, barely more than a peck, really, but Newt feels like his chest is about to explode. As they part, Tommy snickers, and Newt panics that he is such a terrible kisser that it’s actually _funny_. “What?”

“You thought Teresa was my _girlfriend._ ” He snorts, and Newt hits him on the arm before silencing him with another kiss. “Idiot.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! Thanks for reading! I'm on tumblr as [wandamaximeff](http://wandamaximeff.tumblr.com) if you wanna come hang :)


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